


Coming Back Together

by chimpchimpchimp



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:19:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8282365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chimpchimpchimp/pseuds/chimpchimpchimp
Summary: This was supposed to get easier over time. It was supposed to hurt less. But Jack still feels his whole world tilt at just the mention of Kent.





	1. Out of the Woodwork: part I

The front door of the Haus swings open with a whining creak reminiscent of horror films, but instead of a poorly costumed monster straight out of the 80’s, a dark-haired Canadian walks in. A cold gust of January air blows in before Jack closes the door and the mismatched cluster of hockey players sitting on the condemned green couch protests in a collective groan.

  
Ransom, Shitty, Bitty, and Holster are crammed onto the offensive piece of furniture, while the frogs are clustered together on the floor in a mosh of blankets and questionably stained pillows. Everyone is facing the old T.V. while a sports announcer rattles off hockey statistics at an almost auctioneer-level speed.

  
“Ughhhhhh, noo,” moans Bitty as he curls into a tight ball between Shitty and Holster, the latter of whom throws his arms around the smaller boy dramatically.

  
“WE MUST PROTECT OUR SMALL SOUTHERN BROTHER FROM THE COLD!”

  
“Seriously though,” Shitty agrees as he blows out a plume of dense smoke and passes the joint to Ransom on his other side, “If we lose Bitty we’d be like, totally fucking screwed in the food department. I can’t go back to a pieless life, I won’t fucking make it brah. ‘Sup Jackabelle?”

  
“Hey,” Jack chuckles softly as the rest of his team shouts out varying forms of greetings. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and his hands are buried deep in the pockets of his hooded black jacket.

  
Jack shakes the melting snow from his hair and makes his way over to his teammates. He perches on the arm of the couch as an infomercial for some callous-removing egg came on screen, cutting off whatever game the boys had been watching.

  
“Dude, where have you been?” laments Ransom as he tugs a blanket away from a grumbling Shitty and drapes it over himself, “We’ve been having, like, mad team bonding time, and we made boozy hot chocolate. Tastes like shit at first but after a while s’not so bad.”

  
Bitty grunts in agreement.

  
Jack looks at the faces of his friends and sees glassy, red eyes all around. Everyone has a mug in their hands or near their sides, and the still smoking joint is now being passed to Nursey on the floor. Apparently the rest of the team had been spending their Thursday night a bit differently than he had.

  
“At the library.”

  
Holster makes a huffing sound like he’s personally offended by this admission and Chowder whines pitifully.

  
“Jack,” moans Bitty from his burrow of warmth, “It’s only a week into this semester, no one even has work yet.”

  
“I was working on my thesis.”

  
“Fuck off brah.” Shitty is looking at his best friend with a mix of despair and jealousy, “You’re not supposed to start working on that until, like, two weeks before the deadline, tops.”

  
“Well, I’m almost done with my first draft. Better to get ahead, eh?”

  
“OVERACHEIVER!” shrieks Shitty as he lobs a pillow towards his friend’s head.

  
Jack catches the incoming projectile easily and laughs before changing the subject of conversation.

  
“What are you watching?” he asks.

  
Before any of the team can respond, the NHL logo comes onto the screen accompanied by loud music and the roar of a packed stadium. Commentators announce that they are back from the break and expecting locker room interviews from the winning team momentarily. A digital scoreboard flashes to life across the screen, displaying the results of the league game.

  
_Las Vegas Aces- 5 Los Angeles Kings- 1_

  
“Oh,” mumbles Jack, thankful that everyone’s attention has been pulled back to the T.V. He had forgotten that the Aces were playing tonight.

  
The lazy grin that had been on his face slipped away into nothingness, and the warm sense of ease in his chest dissipates. He presses his lips into a hard line, wondering if he could make a swift exit from the room without any questions.

  
“Should’ve seen the goal that Parse got to round out his hat trick, man,” Holster says reverently, “Absolutely fucking filthy.”

  
“What is that, like his seventh hatty of the season?” asks Dex, shaking his head, “He could break Gretsky’s record if he keeps it up.”

  
“He’s already broken most of the standing records, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  
The team breaks out into multiple conversations detailing the statistics of Kent Parson’s current season while Jack tries to control the slight tremor he already feels in his hands. He had been absolutely tired to his core, but happy and calm just seconds ago. Now it was like someone had pushed him into a freezing river and he was struggling to get his head above the water.

  
He wants to swallow a few more Xanax than necessary and curl up under the heavy covers on his bed, maybe play a documentary on his laptop until he passes out. Anything to not think, to not remember all of those moments shared in secret, both the highs and the lows.

  
This was supposed to get easier over time, it was supposed to hurt less, but even after more than five fucking years worth of time Jack feels his whole world tilt at just the mention of Kent.

  
Memories spin through his head like a film roll that can’t be paused. Warm, chapped lips moving against his own, the smell of limes and clean laundry, blonde hair and never-ending freckles, and every fucking one of those sunshine filled days following the Memorial Cup.

  
He also remembers arms hugging him against a smaller chest tightly as he shook and struggled to take even a single breath. He remembers being so high that nothing bothered him, because nothing mattered at all when he was like that, and he remembers pretending not to notice the scared look he’d receive when he popped another pill. Most of all he remembers staring at himself in his bathroom mirror, feeling like he didn’t recognize his own face, and dumping out the entire bottle of pills into his hand. He had just wanted everything to slow down, to just stop for one second while he caught his breath and quieted the blaring alarm that had seemed to constantly fill his head.  
Jack can’t hear a word of what the commentators are saying now. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to take deep breaths through his nose. There were no more pills, no more limes and freckles or stupid, catchy pop songs playing on the car radio. No more cackling laughter, fidgety hands, or slightly crooked teeth. He’s on his own now.

  
When Jack feels like he can breath somewhat normally again, and the sound of roaring waves recedes in his mind, he opens his eyes. He immediately regrets the decision.  
A large group of reporters are clustered in what he assumes to be the Aces locker room, and Kent Parson is sitting on a bench in the center of the chaos. Jack feels like he’s been punched hard in the gut.

  
Parse is still covered in sweat; his wild hair twisting up into odd angles in some places and pressed flat against his head in others. There’s blood staining the blonde hair at his temple and a harsh line of black stiches bisecting one of his eyebrows. His expression looks bored and tired, like he wants to be anywhere else in the world at that moment.

  
Jack stands abruptly and heads into the kitchen before Kent starts responding to the first question.

 

 

The rest of the team had whooped loudly when Parse came on the screen and started to rehash all of their individual stories about the NHL player from the last Epikegster. Bitty had tossed a worried look towards Jack, but everyone else besides Shitty had been too absorbed in their reminiscing to notice anything off about their Canadian captain.

  
Shitty’s eyes follow Jack as strides quickly into the kitchen, face pale and broad shoulders pulled into his body like he’s trying to disappear into himself. He’s about to get up and follow his friend, but then his attention gets rerouted to the T.V. as Parse’s voice filled the room.

  
“Our D was really strong and they shut down everything the Kings tried to pull on our side of the ice tonight.”

  
Loud yells of celebration can be heard off camera in the locker room and Parse grins at someone off-screen.

  
“How does it feel to score your seventh hat trick of the season and are you trying to beat the record this year?”

  
“Ahh well you know, their defense made a lot of mistakes tonight so that definitely helped, and nah I’m not really thinking about that. Just one game at a time you know?”

  
Parse answers the bevy of questions thrown at him with all of the ease and flippancy expected of someone that had been doing interviews like this for years.

  
“You’re currently on the longest winning streak in the history of the NHL, does that factor into your strategy for the rest of the season?”

  
“I mean, it’s the whole team, not just me you know? And like I said before we take it one game at a time. Getting ahead of ourselves is never helpful.”

  
He fields a few more questions about the game and the current state of the Aces before an obnoxiously loud reporter shouts over another that had been asking about pregame rituals.

  
“You were seen leaving a restaurant with Miley Cyrus the last time the Aces were playing in LA! Are you two in a relationship?”

  
An annoyed look flashes across Parse’s face and he rolls his eyes as catcalls emanate all around him from his off-screen teammates.

  
“Get it Parsnip!”

  
“Ow ow!”

  
“Yeahhhh, atta boy, Parser!”

  
After the noise has settled enough for Parse’s response to actually be heard, he looks at the reporter with his eyebrows raised in a bored expression.  
“What does that have to do with hockey?” he asks.

  
Holster sniggers on the couch.

  
“Totally avoided the question,” he announces to the Haus, “I’d bet money on them dating. I saw those pictures and the two of them were hanging all over each other.”  
Back on the screen, the same reporter isn’t giving up after receiving that answer.

  
“You didn’t answer the question, are you dating Miss Cyrus or not?”

  
Parse’s previous look of annoyance is now replaced with a flat out glare, the angry line of stitches only adding to the effect.

  
“Seriously dude? You from TMZ or something?” he practically sneers with disdain, “And we’re just good friends, we met at a PETA thing a few years back. We’re both really into cats. Happy now?”

  
The other reporters start to once again ask questions about the upcoming games and state of the team, but the same one shouts over the noise once more.

  
“Are you sure that you and the singer are not romantically involved? You looked very comfortable with each other.”

  
The glare on Parse’s face is now murderous and he drags a hand through his messy hair in frustration.

  
“Leave the fucking guy alone, jeez,” complains Ransom, “Where does this asswipe come off?”

  
“Parse looks like he’s about to deck the shithead,” laughs Dex from his spot next to Nursey on the floor.

  
“Yeah, and he normally seems so fucking chill,” agrees his fellow D-man, “This should be good.”

  
The blonde-haired captain is clenching his jaw and looks like he’s struggling to form a response to the reporter. Finally he huffs out a breath and shakes his head in exasperation. He seems to age ten years in the span of a few seconds, looking utterly tired and beyond the point of giving a fuck.

  
“Aww yiss, here we go,” says Shitty as he leans forward in his seat eagerly, “Time for Parse to ream this guy a new asshole.”

  
Parse does not in fact tell off the overstepping reporter, but what he says next makes both the Haus and the entire locker room immediately fall into a loaded silence.

  
“Yeah, I’m pretty fucking sure considering I’m gay.”

  
He stares calmly back at the throng of reporters surrounding him, many of whom are opening and closing their mouths, seemingly unable to comprehend what was just said. Parse leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and glares challengingly at their faces. His position makes the muscles in his shoulders flex and he suddenly looks much more intimidating.

  
The Samwell hockey players are all staring at the screen, mouths hanging open, and not saying a word. A sudden bang from the kitchen makes them all jump in their seats. It sounded like a cabinet being slammed shut.

  
Then Jack is back in the room and staring at the T.V. from behind the couch. He’s white-faced and his eyes are wide. The hand that he has on the back of the couch is gripping it so tightly that they can feel it shaking through the dingy green fabric. Some of his teammates’ eyes are flipping between their captain and the screen in apparent disbelief.

  
“I-“ begins Holster, seemingly struggling to find words. He looks back at Jack and asks, “Is he serious?”

  
Jack doesn’t respond, but the sheer look of dread on his face and his accompanying silence speaks more than any words could.

  
“Dude,” Ransom breathes in awe, “That was like, the most savage as fuck way to come out. All he needed was a mic to drop and it would have been fucking perfection.”

  
“Did he just curse on live T.V.?” asks Chowder.

  
“Seriously Chowder?” scoffs Holster loudly, his eyes glued to the screen where Parse is now smirking at the still floundering reporters, “Guy just became the first out player in the NHL and that was your takeaway?”

  
Chowder starts to say something back but then an explosion of noise comes from the T.V. as all of the reporters start talking at once. A red-haired woman who was clearly part of the Aces PR team comes onto the screen and is attempting to usher the reporters out of the locker room.

  
“Sorry Jess,” Parse calls out to the woman apparently named Jess, openly grinning now and seeming amused by the whole situation, “I guess you’re going to be pretty fucking busy this week.”

  
Jess sends an exasperated glare his way that makes him laugh loudly. The reporters are still trying to push around the PR woman and are shouting a nonstop stream of questions at the Aces captain.

  
“Did your teammates know-“

  
“How do you think this will affect-“

  
“Does the rampant homophobia in the league-“

  
A few players from the Aces appear on screen and are trying to help Jess clear the room, but the chaos that Parse has caused with only a few words is making it nearly impossible to do so.

  
“Parsnip, what the hell?” shouts a dark-haired Aces player over the commotion as he sits next to Parse on the bench and swings a long arm around his shoulders, “I thought we had all agreed on a plan for this! Puddy even got a bunch of flags. And what am I gunna do with all the glitter I bought? I expect a full refund.”

  
“Fuck you, Swoops,” laughs Parse, looking massively relieved but also a bit shell-shocked, “I never agreed to that and I swear to fucking god I will kill you if you throw glitter at me. That shit is like a fucking anti-biotic resistant infection. It never fucking goes away.”

  
“Yeah Parser? You’d know a lot about resistant infections wouldn’t ya?”

  
“Oh fuck off, Jeff.”

  
“Oh my god, can you please stop cursing? We’re going to get fined so much!” begs Jess, who is still grappling with the reporters.

  
“Ah shit sorry,” replies Parse, not looking sorry in the slightest, “Fuck, sorry, sh--, okay I’m gunna stop talking now.”

  
More of his teammates crowd around him and completely block him from view. Suddenly a large, angry player appears in front of the camera that has been steadily filming the whole chaotic situation.

  
“Is enough,” he growls out in a thick Russian accent, “Captain says no more talking. You go now. Bye.”

  
The cameraman begins to argue but the Russian reaches out a large hand. The view tilts violently and hits the floor of the locker room before everything goes black.  
The Haus is completely quiet as they all watch the black screen in shock. A few seconds later the two commentators from earlier appear back on the screen, looking equally as dumbstruck. They begin to disbelievingly describe the scene that had just occurred in the Aces locker room. Their voices seem to wake up the Samwell team and they are quickly conversing among themselves again.

  
“Oh shitttt,” chuckles Ransom, shaking his head, “Ohhhhhhh shit, I can’t believe he just did that.”

  
“Balls of fucking steel, brah,” says Shitty wondrously. The joint had gone out minutes ago in his hand but he seems to not notice.

  
“Seriously,” agrees Holster, “That was s’wawesome. Never saw that coming though, dude seemed straight as a fucking arrow.”

  
“And you thought he and Miley were dating, dude.”

  
“Shut up Rans, you know my gaydar is usually on fucking point.”

  
“Hey, Jack,” calls out Dex, “Did you know?”

  
The entire team turns around to stare at their captain. Jack is still watching the T.V. intensely. He looks like someone has just told him of a death in the family. His knuckles are white where he is gripping the couch tightly. The team grows silent as they wait for him to respond.

  
“Yeah,” he finally grinds out from between his clenched teeth. His voice is rough and gravelly.

  
The mood in the room immediately drops.

  
Jack turns without saying another word and trudges up the stairs. They watch him go silently and jump when they hear a door slam closed.

  
Holster is the first to break the silence.

  
“Do you guys think… does this mean…”

  
“The fanfiction.” says Ransom lowly, having followed Holster’s train of thought as usual.

  
“Chyeah. Do you think they-“

  
“That’s none of our business,” Shitty’s voice cuts across them, sounding blunt and authoritative and so entirely unlike his usual tone.

  
The two D-men shut their mouths quickly. Everyone stares around at each other, no one knowing exactly what to say.

  
Shitty expels a huge sigh, then gets up from the couch and follows Jack.

  
“What was that you were saying before about your gaydar?”

  
“Shut up, Rans.”


	2. Out of the Woodwork: Part II

Over the next two weeks, the Samwell hockey team sees little of Jack Zimmerman outside of practice. He had been spending his time holed up in the library or at Faber, and any attempts at conversation were met with a grunt and the sight of his retreating back. Even Shitty and Lardo were being completely ignored by their best friend.

On the other hand, the entire world was treated to an overload of Kent Parson. He was practically a household name before, not just in the hockey world, but now he dominated the media entirely. The infamous locker room interview covered the headlines of every newspaper and magazine for days.

Parse had cleared up any lingering doubts about his sexuality by posting an eloquent “Fuck it” on twitter minutes after the interview ended, accompanied by the rainbow flag Emoji.

He had been refusing all further requests for interviews on all forms of media, but that didn’t stop the press from trying. Multiple videos surfaced of the paparazzi hounding him outside of the T-Mobile arena in Vegas, and one in particular kept making the rounds on social media.

“Kent! Why are you declining to talk further about your coming out? Are you ashamed or do you regret your decision?”

Parse rolls his eyes as he walks through the parking lot, a few of his team members beside him looking murderously around at the reporters.

“Nah man,” he replies in a bored voice, “I’ve got nothing more to say. I’m gay, end of fucking story. Ya wanna ask me something about our game tomorrow?”

In the game mentioned, he scores 4 goals and assists twice. During the game a few days later he gets another hat trick. He’s playing the best hockey of his life, despite the increase in checks that the other teams have been sending his way, and it’s like he’s daring someone to question whether his coming out will affect his play. He skates off the ice bloody after the second game, but the grin he shoots the cameras is completely animalistic and full of adrenaline.

The entire Aces team makes a video together in support of their captain and posts it on the team’s twitter account. This prompts players from other teams, celebrities, and laypersons alike to follow suit and soon there are hundreds of thousands of videos on social media offering Parse support and commending him for his bravery.

Of course there are many condemning him for his actions, and people are spitting homophobic vitriol across the Internet, but these voices are largely drowned out by the positive reactions.

Swoops posts a video on Instagram of the Aces physically holding Parse down before dumping a bucket filled with glitter over his head. It reaches over a fifty million views within a week. The following video of him shaking glitter out of his hair and muttering about how much he hates his teammates garners even more views.

When Jack’s name inevitably gets brought up in the media’s conversation, Parse makes a vague twitter post about not dragging innocent bystanders into the mess.

Shitty and Lardo are in the kitchen of the Haus talking about said tweet on Lardo’s phone when Jack walks in. It’s the end of the second week following Parse’s coming out, and neither have had a real conversation with their friend since. That’s not to say they haven’t tried, but all of their attempts have failed miserably.

They immediately fall silent, as the team had taken to doing around their captain lately. Jack mumbles out a greeting, grabs a protein bar from the cabinet, and leaves the room before either of his friends can respond.

Shitty huffs out a loud sigh and Lardo’s eyes snap to his.

“We’ve gotta talk to him,” she says lowly, picking at the pie sitting in front of her, “This is getting out of hand. He’s been avoiding everyone.”

Shitty works his jaw for a few seconds, then stands up abruptly.

“You’re right, let’s go,” he barks out, “He’s gunna talk to us one way or another.”

Lardo hesitates, chewing her lip, but then nods and takes his extended hand to pull her out of the chair. Shitty leads the way up the stairs, stomping loudly, and shouts out.

“JACK! Me and Lards are coming in, get ready for a tight ass fucking group hug!”

When they reach the door to Jack’s room, Shitty tries to kick it down despite the fact that it’s unlocked. Jack opens the door after the second karate kick with a look that is half-annoyed and half-wary. His hair is rumpled and there are dark bags under his pale blue eyes.

“I don’t want to talk.”

He sounds so tired and defeated that Shitty immediately pulls him into a crushing hug despite the noises of protest Jack makes.

“Well, too bad,” Shitty’s voice is muffled from where his face is pushed into Jack’s red and black flannel, “You’ve been avoiding us for too fucking long and you’re gunna talk to us because we’re your best fucking friends and we want to help you, you dense Canadian blockhead.”

“Not the words I would’ve chosen but the sentiment is accurate,” Lardo smirks at Jack from behind Shitty, who is still clinging to Jack like he’s going to bolt any second.

Jack sighs, looking back and forth between the two. He seems to realize that he isn’t getting a choice in the matter, and he finally raises his arms to hug Shitty back. Lardo quickly winds her arms around his waist from the other side, squeezing as hard as she can.

“Ok,” Jack sighs again from between his two friends, “But, can we smoke some pot first?”

“Of course we can you beautiful bastard,” Shitty answers, sounding suspiciously like he’s tearing up.

Ten minutes later, Jack finds himself sitting between the two on top of Shitty’s bed, passing a bong between them. Their shoulders are all pressing tightly together, and after two weeks spent almost entirely alone, the contact is reassuringly grounding for Jack.

Lardo has pulled a pen out from somewhere and is doodling intricate designs on Jack’s forearm; an activity that has become comfortingly familiar to him over the last few years.

“Soooo,” Shitty begins as he places the kicked bong down on the desk next to his bed, “I’m not really sure where to start, or what exactly to ask.”

Jack gives a small laugh, not entirely devoid of humor, and leans his head back against the wall. He hadn’t smoked in a while, and he had to admit that it was definitely helping him in his current situation. He rubs a hand over his red eyes and expels a huge sigh.

“I do,” says Lardo bluntly, capping the pen and grabbing one of Jack’s hands with her own. Shitty follows suit and throws an arm over his shoulders, “Were you and Parse together in Q?”

Jack chews on his lip for a few seconds as he tries to get words out. These are his two best friends and he knows that nothing he could say would change their opinion of him, but he has kept this a secret for so long that even saying the words out loud feels physically impossible.

“Yeah,” he finally responds, half-choking on the words as they leave his mouth. Lardo nods her head and Shitty pats his shoulder. Their blasé reactions lift a weight off of Jack’s shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was settling there until this moment.

“Cute” Lardo mumbles with a smirk.

“Totally fucking cute,” agrees Shitty.

Jack laughs for real and shakes his head.

“Fuck,” he breathes before repeating himself, “Fuck.”

He feels himself beginning to shake and he grips Lardo’s hand far too tightly. She doesn’t complain.

“It’s all good,” Shitty says in a nonchalant tone as he packs another bowl for the bong, “Are we the first people you’ve ever told? Here, you definitely deserve greens brah.”

Jack nods and accepts the bong from Shitty gratefully. He takes a hit and holds the smoke in his lungs until it starts to burn.

“My parents knew,” he offers up quietly, wisps of smoke still slipping through his lips, “But I never told them. They figured it out pretty early on by themselves.”

Lardo raises her eyebrows in surprise.

“Your parents knew?” Jack nods, “And they were cool about it?”

He nods again, tracing the patterns that Lardo had drawn across his arm.

“Damn, that makes me love them even more. So fucking chill,” says Shitty reverently.

“Yeah,” Jack agrees, “I’m lucky. I don’t know what I would’ve done if they…”

He trails off, but both of his friends nod in understanding.

They pass the bong back and forth in silence until its kicked again.

“So, are you gay?” Lardo asks bluntly.

Jack snorts and shakes his head.

“No. You know I’ve dated girls.”

“Bi?”

“I guess,” Jack shrugs, “I’ve never really cared or thought about it too much.”

Shitty is nodding and stroking his mustache, like he’s trying to piece together some grand conspiracy. Or thinking about what Bitty might bake later in the day; Jack had seen the same look applied to both situations.

“So what happened?” Shitty asks.

Jack’s face falls and he suddenly looks much older than his 24 years. He chews on his lip for a few seconds before answering.

“I fucked it up, like I always do,” he spits out bitterly, and now it felt like the words were spilling out of his mouth involuntarily. Words that he had never spoken to anyone other than a slew of therapists, “We had a plan for after the draft. Maybe get traded to the same team after a few years, or at least play on teams close to each other. Then I overdosed and ruined everything.”

Lardo squeezes his hand and Shitty hugged him tighter.

“I was- I was such a fucking asshole,” Jack’s voice breaks, the words pouring out now, “He- he tried to help me so much. I was just- I was so fucking broken then, no one could have helped. I- I told him I’d never speak to him again if he told my parents how bad I’d gotten.”

“Jack,” sighs Shitty as his friend pulls his knees up and wrapped his arms around them.

“And then I went to rehab and he went to Vegas,” he mumbles into his arms, “And he kept trying to talk to me and I kept ignoring him. I was there for almost a year. I was so medicated for most of it that I just slept any time I wasn’t in therapy. I was a fucking zombie. And by the time I started to actually get better it was too late. I- I couldn’t even think about him because I was too embarrassed and confused and- and I felt so fucking guilty.”

“Is that why you acted like that when he came to Samwell?” asks Shitty gently, remembering how hostile Jack had been to the Aces player.

Jack nods. He remembers the sheer panic he had felt when Kent showed up in his dorm during freshman year. After not seeing him for nearly two years, just the sight of his face had sent him into a tailspin of jumbled emotions. He remembers the way Kent had pleaded with him, begged Jack to just talk to him, to tell him why he kept ignoring him. It had all been too much, and Jack’s mind was still entirely too fragile. He had lashed out in his panic, spouting the most hurtful words he could think of, and Kent, never having been one to take abuse, had attacked him right back.

“That was just- it was such a fucking bad time for me, and he was there for all of it. It was hard to separate him from all of the shit I was going through, I- I didn’t know if he was making it better or worse. I just pushed him away so I didn’t- so I didn’t have to sort through everything I was feeling. So I’ve just ignored anything to do with him for the past six years, because I’m a massive fucking coward.”

He laughs mirthlessly and tugs on the hair falling across his forehead. Lardo pulls his hand away and holds it in hers once again.

“And now?” she asks softly, running her fingers over the lines of his palm, his hand looking huge and rough next to her own nimble fingers.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if you’ve been living under a rock or what, but he kinda caused a big fucking stir by coming out a little while ago. Makes it pretty hard to not think about him.”

“Yeah, I’ve been- I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Sorry I’ve been ignoring you, I just-“

He trails off, looking small and unsure of himself.

“Shut up,” says Shitty brusquely, “It’s fine, you needed time to process or whatever, we get that, we really do. Just don’t shut us out next time, alright? We can’t help you if you don’t let us, brah.”

Jack smiles weakly.

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that. Just, you know, talking has always been hard for me, but I try to be better.”

Shitty pulls his head into his chest and kisses his dark hair.

“We love you to the moon and back you handsome motherfucker, the rest of the team too. You know that right?”

“I know,” chuckles Jack, pulling away from Shitty’s vice-like grip, “I love you too, really. You’re the first friends I’ve ever had that aren’t middle-aged.”

“Aww,” coos Lardo, now pulling Jack over into her arms, “No wonder you’re such an old man.”

They chirp Jack for a few minutes about all of his old man personality traits until he’s smiling again, and looking a little bit less like he’s holding the world up on his shoulders. Then the conversation turns back to Parse.

“So, where has all the thinking got you?” asks Shitty reluctantly, like he’s sorry that they have to return to the subject, “Has your spazzy brain sorted through all of your feelings yet?”

“I think so.”

“And?”

Jack hesitates, looks at both of them, and then looks back at his hands. There’s a faint blush rising on the top of his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“I was really fucking in love with him,” he says softly, lips pulling up at the corners slightly, “And I probably would have OD’ed a lot sooner if he hadn’t been there. He was never part of the problem; I think I always knew that. It was just easier to blame him than to have to think about the way I treated him.”

Shitty looks at him hard.

“Are you still in love with him?”

Jack’s eyes widen and he swallows.

“I- I don’t know. I haven’t really talked to him in years, but I never felt like that with anyone else.”

Lardo sighs softly and Shitty nods resolutely.

“Alright, so what’s the game plan then?”

Jack blinks at him for a few seconds.

“What?”

“The game plan Jackie!” he throws his hands up in the air, “Have you talked to him about this?”

Jack’s face goes pale.

“No,” he says vehemently, “I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?” asks Lardo.

“It’s- it’s been too long. He wouldn’t want to hear that. He tried to reach out to me so many times and I always shut him down.”

“Brah,” Shitty says shaking his head, “The guy keeps finding a reason to swing by a microscopic liberal arts school in the middle of fucking nowhere. I’m pretty sure he wants to hear whatever you have to say. Not to mention the fact that he looked like someone had killed his cat or something when he left Epikegster. And I know that was after you guys talked or whatever, so what happened then?”

“He tried to get me to sign with the Aces, said they would free up cap space,” Jack swallows, “And that he missed me.”

“Shit dude, that’s a big fucking deal. What did you say?”

“I said no.”

Shitty groans.

“Whyyyyyy though? You guys would probably win the cup every year if you played on the same team in the league.”

Jack makes a noise of frustration, and then the word vomit is happening again. Maybe it’s because he’s really high, or maybe because he’s already gotten this far, and he’s always believed in ripping the Band-Aid off quickly.

“I know I said my overdose wasn’t his fault, and it wasn’t, but the idea of being separated after the draft was a huge part of it. I needed to be able to make it on my own, without having to rely on him. If we play on the same team again I’ll always be afraid of getting separated. I can’t depend on him for everything anymore. It’s not fair to either of us.”

“I think that’s a really mature decision, Jack, especially since it couldn’t have been easy to make,” Lardo intones when he finishes.

“Seconded,” Shitty agrees.

Jack huffs out a single laugh.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“No problem, brah, and thanks for telling us all of this, for trusting us with it. I know it probably sucked, but do you feel any better now?”

“Kind of, but I think I mostly feel confused now.”

“You really need to talk to him.”

Jack sighs.

“I know.”

The sound of the front door to the Haus slamming open makes all three of them jump. Loud voices and laughter rises up through the ceiling.

“Ok, here’s what we’re gunna do,” says Lardo in her most serious team manager voice. The one that made any one of the boys on the team drop what they were doing and stand at attention.

“We?”

She ignores Jack and plows on.

“We’re going to go eat dinner with the team,” Jack begins to protest, “Yes you are, Jack. You don’t have to say anything and no one is going to make you, but you have to let everyone know that you still exist because they’ve all been worried shitless about you.”

“I just don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah,” drawls Shitty, “I know you probably just maxed out your quota for like the next three years. We’ll do all the talking.”

Lardo nods.

“And after the team has been reassured that your programming hasn’t short-circuited or whatever, you’re gunna text or call Parse, got it?”

“I- ok, fine. I don’t think he’ll answer though.”

“He will,” Shitty says with more confidence than Jack has ever felt about anything in his life, “And before we go downstairs do you want to smoke another bowl?”

“ _Please_ ,” groans Jack emphatically.

Shitty laughs and claps him on the back before starting to prepare the bong for a third time in less than an hour.

 

Dinner with the rest of the team is surprisingly easy, which Jack really should have expected by now. When he first enters the kitchen with Shitty and Lardo, all three of them sporting eyes as red as cherry tomatoes, the guys all gape at him for half a second. But before he can even begin to feel the telltale signs of his social anxiety creeping in, they’ve already burst back into full volume and are regaling him with a tale about the obnoxiousness of the lax bros from earlier in the day.

Jack knows it’s a bit forced, and he can clearly see the wary looks they try to discreetly shoot his way, but the sentiment is so genuine that he feels like he could cry. Bitty gives him a quick, crushing hug after he hands him a plate full of some chicken dish that smells amazing, and no one even bats an eye. His other teammates seem to keep finding reasons to grip his shoulder as they walk by, and all of the chirps sent his way are uncharacteristically lighthearted.

            He feels so warm and comfortable by the end of dinner that he almost doesn’t remember why he felt like he was on the verge of spontaneous combustion for nearly two weeks. But then he finds himself sitting on his bed alone and staring at his phone, all of his insecurities coming back full throttle.

Jack types out and deletes the same message over and over again for nearly an hour. None of the words he comes up with seem right, and at the end of the agonizing hour he sends a simple _Hey_ before he can think about it.

He regrets it the second the message is sent and starts planning for a life of isolation near the Arctic Circle. It wouldn’t be so bad; he could hunt and forage for his food and never have to see another human being again.

Jack is halfway through a mental list of dog breeds he would want as a companion in his new life when his phone buzzes. A quick glance down at the screen shows the name Kenny accompanied by one new message. The small icon picture next to Kent’s name shows his seventeen-year-old face covered in an absurd amount of face paint that was apparently supposed to resemble Spiderman. Jack remembers laughing so hard that he cried when Kent had it done at a winter festival during Christmas time in Montreal. He’d refused to take it off for hours, even after it started to flake, and by the end of the night both of their faces were smeared with red and black.

Jack takes a couple of deep, measured breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, exactly like all of his therapists had shown him, then he slides the message open.

_I’m going to deny anything they bring up about us, you don’t have to worry._

_I know you wouldn’t. That’s not why I texted you._

_Oh, ok._

Jack tugs on his hair in frustration while he formulates his next message.

_Can we talk?_

_Like right now?_

_I’d rather do it in person._

Kent takes a while to respond to that. The little typing bubble keeps appearing and disappearing for a nearly a minute before his message comes through.

_I don’t think that’s a good idea._

_Why not?_

_Because you’ve made me feel like shit every time we’ve seen each other since the draft? Because I felt like shit after what I said to you last time? Take your pick, but I can’t keep doing this._

Jack almost loses it. He wants to throw his phone out of the window and pretend that this never happened, but he knows it’s too late for that now.

_It won’t be like that this time. Please, Kenny._

The next response doesn’t come for almost ten excruciating minutes.

_We’re playing the Bruins next Friday. I’ll come by after._


	3. Out of the Woodwork: Part III

The following Friday night finds the majority of the Haus extremely hung over from Thursday night shenanigans. Everyone except for Jack had been in bed for most of the day, nursing their lingering nausea and headaches with frequent trips to the kitchen for pie and Advil. Lardo hadn’t even made it back to her apartment the night before and had lay claim to the comfy window seat in the upstairs hall.

Holster makes the executive decision for everyone to skip a night of partying in favor of the oldest hangover cure known to man: massive amounts of marijuana and shitty Chinese food. No one puts up a fight; they all seem more than happy to have an excuse to stay in for once on a weekend.

It goes unsaid that they don’t watch the Aces game on the T.V., especially since Jack is within earshot in his room upstairs.

The mood in the house has improved since Shitty and Lardo’s impromptu intervention, but everyone has still been walking on their toes around their captain. And absolutely no one breathes a word about Parse when Jack is in the Haus. The Aces player is still dominating every news source and form of social media in the country, but the Samwell hockey house has effectively become a Kent Parson free zone.

Neither Shitty nor Lardo have breathed a word of their emotional conversation with Jack to anyone else on the team, but the others aren’t stupid and it was easy for them to connect the dots on their own. They were all still pretty thrown by the whole situation, considering no one had even an inkling that Jack might swing both ways, and the fact that it involved one of the best NHL players in history only added to the shock. They had known about Jack and Parse’s friendship, and about their earlier hockey exploits, but this was something entirely different.

So they don’t watch the Aces game live, but they pretend that they don’t see each other checking the score on their phones every few minutes. By the end of the second Game of Thrones episode, and the fifth bowl pack, the game has ended and the final score reads: _Aces 4 Bruins 3._

Another two episodes go by before the door to the Haus swings open softly and Parse comes in, slightly tripping over the threshold. His snapback is facing forwards and pulled low over his eyes, the white of the Yankees logo standing out starkly against the rest of his dark clothing. He stomps the snow off of his shoes and looks up, seeming slightly surprised when he sees five pairs of extremely red eyes staring back at him in disbelief.

“Uh, hey,” he offers up lamely. He flips his hat around and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, looking like it’s taking all of his effort to not bolt back through the door.

Shitty recovers first, pausing the show just as an enormous pair of breasts appears. Holster guffaws with laughter as he stuffs a handful of wonton chips into his mouth.

“Parse, what’s up man?” Shitty says easily, “How’s it going?”

He looks like the picture of calm, but anyone who knew him could see the uneasiness in Shitty’s expression and the way his eyes keep flitting between the NHL captain and the top of the stairs.

Parse walks over to the couch, snorting slightly at the image frozen on the screen.

“Everything’s good, thanks dude. Shitty, right? What’s up with you guys? No party tonight?” he asks with a nod towards the T.V.

They let out a collective groan.

“Yikes. Rough night?”

“I’m never drinking alcohol again,” groans Ransom, reaching for the discarded bong on the floor, “You want a hit brah?”

“Nah man, I’m good. Thanks though.”

“Sure, sure.”

They’re all still a little star struck in his presence, and there is a brief, somewhat awkward silence that Parse breaks.

“So what season is this?”

“Season six!” bellows Holster, “Wanna pop a squat and watch with us?”

“Ahh no wonder I didn’t recognize this scene,” Parse replies dryly. Lardo sniggers from the other end of the couch, “I haven’t watched since season four. Waiting for the book, you know?”

“Good luck with that, man.”

Parse laughs and its followed by another awkward silence.

“So, uh,” starts Shitty eloquently, “We watched the interview after the Kings game. Good for you, brah, seriously.”

The others make varying sounds of agreement.

“Balls of fucking steel,” Ransom mutters under his breath over and over again, his eyes still glued to the enormous tits staring at them all.

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” he replies looking uncomfortable and scratching the back of his head, “Didn’t really mean to do that, but you know, it happened, can’t exactly take it back now.”

“How’s it been for you since?” asks Lardo.

“Same old shit,” he answers, seeming like he’s going for a nonchalant tone but it’s plainly underlain with bitterness, “I’ve heard faggot thrown around on the ice for, like, a decade, so nothing new there. Not looking forward to playing in Texas again, but whatever. I’ll survive.”

None of them know how to respond to that, but luckily Parse speaks again and saves them from saying something stupid.

“Is uh-,” he clears his throat, “Is Zimms upstairs?”

“Yeah,” says Holster carefully, “Probably studying for finals already.”

Parse gives a laugh devoid of feeling and stares up at the second floor landing. He suddenly looks much older than he actually is.

“Cool, yeah. Cool,” he stumbles over his words now, looking far from the calm and collected persona he usually put on in front of the press, “I’m gunna- yeah. Have fun with Thrones.”

He shakes his head as if there’s an annoying bug flying too close and sighs hard. With that he begins to trudge up the stairs like he’s heading to his own funeral.

They watch him go in silence, and only once they hear the door to Jack’s room close does Bitty break the silence.

“Did y’all know he was coming over?” he asks, looking between Shitty and Lardo.

Both shake their heads.

“Let’s move this party to the kitchen boys,” says Lardo in a tone that gives no room for argument, “Give ‘em some space.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jack hears when Kent comes in. He hears the entire conversation downstairs and he hears the footsteps coming up the stairs. He has the sudden urge to jump from his window and sprint across campus to anywhere but here. Instead he takes a few deep breaths and looks down at the papers in his slightly shaking hands.

Shitty had told him to write down what he wanted to say to Parse so he wouldn’t have to formulate all of his thoughts in the heat of the moment. Jack had thought that was a great idea given his proclivity to lose his voice around Kent, or to lose any trace of rational thought if he was being honest. He had sat down the morning after he talked to his two friends, and the words had seemed to pour out of him and onto the page. Every time he thought he had said everything, something new stood out in his mind and he went back to scribbling feverishly.

By the end of the week he had nearly five pages, front and back, of his thoughts that he was ready to present to Kent. It was scrawled out messily, half in French and half in English, but he was as happy as he was going to get with it.

He’s still staring at the papers and trying to quiet the tremor in his hands when he hears the soft sound of someone clearing their throat. He looks up from where he’s sitting on his bed and sees Kent slide into his room and shut the door behind him.

Jack stands and takes in the familiarity of Kent all at once. From the way he’s nervously wringing his hat between his hands to the way his hair sticks up in every direction in the front, full of cowlicks and kinks. The smear of freckles across his nose and upper cheeks is the same as ever, and the way Kent looks down at his feet before meeting his eyes shyly makes Jacks heart ache. The deep purple bags under his eyes make them look intensely green. He’s dressed casually in a t-shirt and a dark hoodie, not even wearing the big watch that he had worn that last, awful time they saw each other.

They stare at each other in silence for a few seconds, which feels more like a few hours, before Kent speaks.

“Hi,” he says lowly, sounding unsure and completely unlike his usual self. Kent was always so different around him than he was in public though, and Jack would take his private version of Kent over the media’s version any day.

As soon as they were behind closed doors or out of sight of their teammates, the confident and unaffected persona that Kent put on for other people disappeared instantly and he became the Kent that made Jack smile until his face ached. The one that was dorky, warm, and entirely too talkative, though Jack never minded the seemingly endless stream of words. The Kent that would grin at him hugely, laugh genuinely at his mumbled sarcasm, and gently touch him in a way that made him feel like he was actually worth something.

Jack opens his mouth a few times before responding.

“Hi.”

Kent stares at him and doesn’t offer up anything else; Jack has to be the one to take control of this conversation now. He knows that, but it doesn’t make it any easier to find a place to start.

“How are you?” Jack’s voice sounds wrong in his own ears, “You know, since, uh, everything happened?”

Kent works his jaw tensely and his eyes dart to the right.

“What do you care?”

His voice is hard and he is avoiding Jack’s gaze.

“Of course I-“ Jack starts, but he quickly stops when he sees the murderous look that flashes across Kent’s face. He sighs hard and rubs a hand over his eyes.

Luckily, Kent seems to take pity on him.

“Look,” he sighs, still twisting his hat back and forth between his hands, “Can we just cut the shit and get to the reason you wanted to talk? I already told you I’m not gunna say anything about us, so I guess I don’t really see what else there is to talk about. You’ve made it pretty fucking clear that you don’t want anything to do with me anymore.”

His voice is harsh but his eyes are suspiciously bright and wet.

Jack clenches his hand reflexively and they both look down when they hear the sound of crumpling paper. Oh right, the letter. Jack thrusts it out towards him unceremoniously.

Kent laughs humorlessly.

“What is that? A cease-and-desist order or something?”

Jack shakes his head vigorously.

“No. I just-“ he clears his throat, “Shitty told me to write down what I wanted to say, so I didn’t panic and say the wrong thing. I think I’m already fucking it up anyway though.”

Kent eyes him warily but takes the sheets of paper from his outstretched hand. Jack doesn’t miss the way that he purposefully avoids having their fingers touch, even just slightly. He doesn’t read the letter then, choosing instead to continue staring at Jack.

“I’m so fucking confused.”

This is it. This is the moment where Jack has to go all in. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m not.”

Kent doesn’t react at all. If anything he looks even more confused and wary. Jack realizes that, like usual, his brain is about ten steps ahead in this conversation and he has neglected to keep Kent caught up in his train of thought.

“I’m not confused, I mean,” he clarifies, and now he feels the rush of words bubbling up in his throat, building in pressure until they all come spilling out through his lips, “At least, I’m not anymore. I’ve been thinking about a lot since you came out, you know? About what I want, instead of what I think I should want, and how- how I’ve treated people before, especially you.”

“Jack…”

Kent’s voice is low and full of unspoken warning, but if Jack stops now he won’t have the courage to start all over again.

“I just-“ he huffs out a breath in frustration and drops his hands to his sides, his fingers curling into fists to stop the shaking, “I just miss you ok? I miss you, Kenny.”

Kent rocks back like Jack had physically hit him and he immediately regrets his choice of words. Both of them remember Kent muttering those same words into Jack’s shirt not two months earlier, gripping onto him tightly even as Jack had pulled away.

Now Kent looks angrier than Jack has ever seen him, and that was saying a lot given both of their short tempers and impulsivity. His eyes are flashing, looking hard and grey now, and Jack thinks he can actually hear his teeth grind together.

“Fuck you,” he finally spits out venomously.

Before Jack can respond, Kent wrenches the door open, slams it closed behind him, and is gone. Despite the pounding in his chest and the onset of panic, Jack doesn’t waste any time following after him. He thunders down the stairs, barely even registering the pair of breasts staring at him from the T.V., and catches Kent by the shoulder just as he reaches the front door.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” growls Kent, his voice breaking in the middle of his sentence, “I should’ve never fucking come here. You- you-“

He shoves Jack, making him stumble back a few feet, and knots his hands in his hair. His chest is heaving and he looks like a cornered animal, wild and ready to lash out, even if he hurts himself in the process.

Jack holds up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

“Kent, please. I want to talk to you.”

Kent’s eyes snap to his again and he laughs derisively.

“Do you even fucking hear yourself? You want to talk to me? God, I’d almost forgotten what a fucking self-centered asshole you are. Everything was always about what you fucking wanted, and everyone else always came fucking second.”

He’s advancing on Jack now, his hair sticking up and a crazed expression on his face.

“That’s not true,” Jack protests, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

Kent shoves him again.

“Fuck you!” Kent yells, his voice edging towards a hysterical level, “Be a fucking man and take some fucking responsibility, Zimmermann. I’ve been trying to talk to you, no fuck that, I’ve been trying to get you to just acknowledge that I fucking exist for six fucking years now. To acknowledge that what happened between us wasn’t all in my fucking head, and you treated me like shit, like I wasn’t even worth your fucking time. Like all of those things you told me, that you fucking promised me when we were younger were-“

His voice breaks off and he yells in frustration. Jack stares at him with wide eyes. He knows the amount of times Kent says fuck usually correlates to his level of anger, and he’s already lost count of how many times he’s heard the expletive. This is going so badly, so beyond how badly he thought it could have possibly gone. He wants to abort from this whole thing and crawl back into his bed for a month or two.

“And now that you want something from me I’m just supposed to crawl back with my tail between my fucking legs and forget everything you fucking did to me?”

“Kent, no, of course not -“ Jack tries, but Kent cuts him off.

“I guess it kind of worked though, right? I almost booked a flight here the night you fucking texted me last week, because I’m a pathetic piece of shit,” he laughs in that awful, humorless way again and it seems like he’s coming apart at the seems, “Don’t think I don’t fucking know that. I’ve been hung up on my ex for more than half a fucking decade, even though I knew you couldn’t have given any less of a shit about me.”

“That’s not true, Kenny, listen, _please_ , I’m sor-”

Kent flinches and cuts him off again.

“Don’t fucking call me that, and don’t you dare fucking apologize, not now, not when you wouldn’t even know where to fucking start.”

Kent’s whole body is shaking like he’s about to explode.

“I was completely fucking alone. You- you know what my fucking family is like. I had nobody. I waited for fucking years for you to call me after you got better, and you never did, and then I see that you’re going to fucking college? Seriously, what the fuck.”

There is something else mixed in with his anger now, something raw and painful and it makes Jack feel worse than he has in years. He wants to pull Kent into his arms, to wrap himself around him, to take away some of the hurt that he knows he caused, but that would most likely result in Kent attacking him if he tried.

“I was alone in fucking Vegas, where you were supposed to be, and I couldn’t even fucking talk to you, or anybody really because god fucking forbid I play hockey and like guys, right?”

He kicks over a folding chair near the T.V. violently. Jack doesn’t know what to say, even if he could speak right now, but it doesn’t feel like Kent would even let him say anything if he tried.

“I wanted to fucking drop out of the draft right after you, did your dad ever tell you that?”

Jack shakes his head vigorously, because his dad hadn’t told him that. He knows that both of his parents had been too afraid to bring up Kent around him since the draft, even if they didn’t say it outright.

“But he made me go, he said that one of us still had to, and he knew I needed the fucking money. So I had to stand on that fucking stage and fucking smile like everything was fucking fine. Like any of that still fucking mattered when you were unconscious in the fucking hospital.”

“Of course it still mattered, Kent, you deserved to-“

“No it fucking didn’t!”

Kent’s voice rises to a hysterical level again, breaking on almost every word. His raspy voice had never been able to handle yelling very well.

“Do you seriously not fucking get that? I would’ve dropped hockey in a fucking second for you. I would’ve never played again if it had just made you fucking happy. For my entre first season I used to antagonize the shit out of the biggest players on the ice, I used to fucking hope that they’d check me so hard that I wouldn’t be able to play anymore, because maybe, just fucking maybe you’d talk to me again if I wasn’t playing and you’d get over you’re stupid fucking jealousy. And then when that didn’t work I thought you’d talk to me if I won the cup, but that didn’t fucking matter either. So I got another and you still wouldn’t fucking answer your phone. Do you know how many times I still fucking called? Just so I could hear your fucking voicemail?”

He’s talking feverishly, pulling at his hair so hard that it looks painful. Jack doesn’t know what to do. This whole situation is spiraling out of control very quickly, and he still can’t seem to say anything.

“It was supposed to be you and me, Zimms,” Kent says in a slightly quieter voice, “Always. That was what you told me. We made a plan, and then you just fucking dropped me. I get that you needed to sort your shit out, but I gave you fucking _years_.”

There’s a lump in Jack’s throat that he can’t seem to swallow down.

“I just- I just don’t know what I did to make you hate me so fucking much,” Kent says while staring down at his feet. He is still vibrating with anger, but now the hurt is equally palpable, “I thought we were good, _happy_ , but I guess that was only me.”

He chews on his lip, like he’s trying to hold something back but failing.

“Did you do it because of me?” he asks lowly, not looking at Jack, “Was it my fault? I know I should’ve fucking told your parents how bad you’d gotten, of course I know that, I think about it every fucking day.”

Jack feels a spark of anger pulse through the numbness that had taken over his body. It goes straight through him and wakes up his brain in an instant. The words come out of his mouth, cold and sharp, before he can even think to stop them.

“You think that I tried to kill myself because of you? You think that my anxiety didn’t exist before I fucking met you? Whose being self-centered now, Parse.”

Kent’s face pales a bit and he starts to backpedal.

“No, obviously fucking not, but-“

“Because it had nothing to fucking do with you,” he snarls. He knows that’s not entirely truthful but now he doesn’t care. He wants to cut into Kent, to make him hurt in a way that only he can make him hurt, “Don’t try to make the worst day of my life about yourself.”

Kent’s sets his jaw and his eyes are full of fire once again.

“You’re the one who made it about me, you colossal fucking douchebag,” he snarls right back, “How can you stand there and fucking say that it didn’t affect me when you swallowed the pills while I was right fucking downstairs!

Jack presses his hands into his eyes until he sees stars.

“Shut the fuck up!” he roars, but Kent doesn’t listen. Of course he doesn’t.

“You waited for your parents to leave first but you couldn’t wait one more fucking hour for me to go?”

“Shut up!” Jack yells again. His ears are ringing and the room is starting to spin. He doesn’t want to think about this, he can’t.

“Do you have any fucking idea what it was like to find you like that?” screams Kent, not listening to Jack, “To have to break down the fucking door and see you lying there.”

Jack can’t scream anymore, he can’t do anything. Each breath is harder to take than the last and dark spots are starting to swim in and out of his vision. He hears Kent yell again from somewhere far away.

“You were fucking blue and already getting cold! I was doing CPR on your fucking corpse for twenty minutes before the ambulance came and jump-started your heart! I’m honestly surprised you didn’t fucking sue me for cracking your ribs. That would’ve been the final nail in the ‘Fuck you, Kent’ coffin.”

Jack sits down hard on the couch, his head in his hands, but Kent still doesn’t let up.

“And now every fucking time I stop moving, every time I stop to think for even one fucking second, I’m back in that bathroom, and you’re there lying on the floor again, and I can feel your bones breaking under my fucking hands. I can’t even see that fucking color of tile anymore without having a panic attack. So I hope you’re fucking happy. I’m finally as fucked up in the head as you are, isn’t that what you wanted?”

Jack hears Kent take a few shuddering breaths like he’s trying to get back some control over himself.

“Sometimes,” he hears him say in a shaky voice after a few seconds, “Sometimes I wish you’d just used a gun and done the job fucking right. Then I would’ve offed myself too, and this whole shitty situation would’ve been over and done with.”

Jack wheezes out a single breath, and it sounds more like a sob. Maybe it is; he’s not entirely sure of anything happening at this point anymore. Everything has gone so utterly fucking wrong.

“You fucking ruined me, Jack.”

Kent’s voice is cold in a way that Jack has never heard it.

“I gave you everything I had, and you used me up. I have nothing left for anyone now. So is this what you wanted to fucking talk about? How you fucking broke me and ruined my fucking life? Or did you just want me to get on my fucking knees and pretend that the last six years never happened?”

Everything is silent for a few seconds then Jack hears the front door slam closed so hard that he feels the vibrations through the floor.

His head is pounding and he can’t get enough air into his lungs; it feels like he’s trying to take in air through a straw. How did he ever think this was a good idea? He shoved Kent out of his mind for years; he ignored him or belittled him every time he tried to reach out and now he was facing the consequences. It was too late; Kent was done with him for good and he was stupid to think that he could crawl out of this hole he dug for himself.

Jack wheezes again and digs his fists into his eyes. He feels a hand on his back and his eyes fly open. Shitty is standing over him, looking worried out of his mind. He vaguely registers the cluster of his teammates standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Fuck,” he groans out in between two tortuous breaths, “Fuck.”

“Hey, Jack, its alright, its alright” says Shitty gently as he begins to stroke his hair, “We’ve all got your back. You’re ok, everything is fine.”

“No it fucking isn’t,” Jack chokes out and bends over his knees, “Everything is fucking wrong. I- fuck. I can’t-”

Oh god, he really can’t breathe now. His vision narrows down to a pinpoint and Shitty’s voice becomes muffled background noise. His heart is pounding so hard that he can feel it in every joint of his body. He’s sure he’s going to die; he’s going to have a heart attack right here in the Haus.

Jack hasn’t had an attack this bad in years and the intensity of it shakes him to his core. It’s not something you can ever get used to, no matter how many times you go through it. He hears himself struggling to suck in air and a part of his brain, however far removed, finds some strange humor in the fact that he sounds like a dying seal.

After a few minutes, which feels more like hours or days, his vision starts to return followed by the rest of his senses. He feels arms around his shoulders, not squeezing him tightly but grounding him in a comforting way. A few seconds later and he’s able to discern that they belong to Lardo. She’s murmuring something to him, and he can’t make out the words, but the soothing tone of her voice slowly brings him back to reality. Then Shitty is back and handing him a glass of water along with one of his single packets of Xanax; no one has prescribed him a full bottle since everything happened, for good reason.

He struggles to rip open the packaging with his shaking hands, so Shitty takes it back and does it for him. He dry swallows the pills and leans his head back against the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes.

When the pills start to kick in, and Jack feels like he can finally breathe again, Shitty takes him by the arm and leads him up to his room. He pulls him into a crushing hug and only then does Jack begin to cry.

 

* * *

 

 

Back down in the kitchen, the Hausmates and Lardo are clustered around the table looking shell-shocked. A half-eaten pie sits between them, but no one has much of an appetite anymore.

“I thought it was a coke thing,” mutters Holster after what feels like a year of silence, “I mean, that’s what all the articles said after the draft, right? I had no fucking idea it was-“

He trails off and looks around at the others, distress radiating off of him.

“I feel like such an asshole,” he continues, “We fucking know Jack, I should’ve-. We should’ve known, I mean, he barely even drinks or anything.”

“I don’t think anyone knew,” Bitty says while wrapping his arms around himself. He seems to be on the verge of tears. He looks at Lardo, “Did you or Shitty-“

She shakes her head, not looking up from the napkin she’s meticulously shredding into tiny pieces.

“It feels overly personal to even ask Jack what his favorite color is,” mumbles Ransom, “I mean, we can’t be surprised that he didn’t just casually drop the fact that he tried to commit suic-“

“Stop,” moans Bitty, drawing his arms closer around himself, “We- we shouldn’t be talking about this. Jack wouldn’t want us to be.”

They fall into silence once again, each person tied up in their own thoughts.

“I don’t know if I want to deck Parse or give him the biggest fucking hug in the world. He really went all out,” Ransom says after a few minutes.

“Yeah,” huffs Holster in agreement, “But I’m starting to get the feeling that Jack really did a fucking number on the guy.”

Lardo nods.

“I think it’s a ridiculously fucked up situation,” she says lowly, pushing her collection of napkin pieces into a small mound, “And that none of us have any grounds to make assumptions.”

Her tone is neutral but full of steel, and it causes a complete standstill in the conversation. Bitty stands up suddenly, the screech of his chair across the floor making them all jump.

“I need to do something,” he says, wringing his hands, “I’m gunna make that pie that Jack likes. And maybe that chicken too, or the soup. Actually I’ll just make both.”

The others stand up too, energized by his words.

“Yeah, we’ll help,” says Ransom.

“What do we need from the pantry, Bits?” asks Holster as he moves towards the aforementioned room.

Lardo is already taking blocks of butter out of the freezer.

Bitty doles out instructions and they all get to work.

 

* * *

 

 

Jack is sitting on top of his covers, knees pulled into his chest and his head buried in his arms. Shitty still has an arm slung around his shoulders and he can’t tell how long they’ve been sitting like this for. An hour? A day? He had heard his Hausmates come upstairs and enter their respective rooms, so he assumed it was late enough for them to go to sleep, but he’s not sure of anything right now. Everything feels like a blur, and the two small pills he had swallowed are definitely not helping his coherency.

Shitty hasn’t said anything in a while; a rare occurrence for the opinionated future lawyer. At first he had tried to apologize over and over again for encouraging Jack to talk to Kent, but he had shut him down quickly. What had happened, what Kent had said to him, had been nobody’s fault but his own.

He hears the door to his room open and he feels Shitty’s arm stiffen around him. Jack raises his head and sees Kent standing in his doorway for the second time that night.

His nose is red from the cold and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. Jack stares at him openly, afraid that he’ll blink and Kent will be gone again. Just like it had felt when he OD’d; Kent was there one second and then he was waking up in a hospital bed, alone save for his parents’ sleeping forms on either side of his bed.

Kent is avoiding his stare and looking at Shitty instead, like he hadn’t expected him to be here.

“The front door was unlocked,” he mumbles. His voice is raw and shredded from their screaming match, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have come back. It was stupid, I’m stupid, I’ll just go-“

“No!”

The word comes out of Jack’s mouth, loud and sudden, before he can stop himself. Kent pauses with his hand on the doorway, swallowing nervously and glancing towards Shitty.

“I think its time for me to go to bed,” says Shitty evenly, ruffling Jack’s hair then hopping off of the bed.

He gives his best friend a long, hard look.

“You good?”

Jack nods, his eyes still fixed on Kent who is shuffling his feet awkwardly at the door.

“Alright, I’ll be next door.”

This time Kent is the one receiving his stare and the warning is clear.

Once the door to their conjoined bathroom closes, Kent moves towards the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out quickly, “I’m really really fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that stuff. That was- that was so fucking far out of line-“

“It’s ok,” Jack mumbles back, picking at a frayed string in his jeans, “It’s not like it wasn’t true, and I deserved it.”

“No,” Kent immediately answers, fervently shaking his head, “No, you don’t. No matter what you did, you could never deserve that. You don’t fucking say shit like that to someone you-“

He swallows and looks away.

“I’ve said worse to you before.”

“That still doesn’t make it ok.”

Jack sighs.

“Well, I guess we’re both assholes.”

Kent smiles weakly and rubs at his eyes.

“Yeah, we always were when it came to each other.”

There’s a beat of silence between them before Kent climbs onto the bed and leans his back against the wall. He’s careful to keep a good six inches of open space between their shoulders. Jack wants to close the distance so badly it hurts, but he somehow stops himself.

There’s a crinkling of paper and he looks over to see Kent gingerly smoothing out the letter he had written against his leg. Oh, right. He had completely forgotten about that in light of everything else that had gone down that night.

“So,” Kent starts and then clears his voice, “So after I left before, I walked around for a while trying to blow off some steam. Then some drunk girls invited me into their house. I think it was a sorority or something, and I drank with them for a while. Great people by the way, drunk girls are so fucking nice. Gave me a bunch of cookies and patted my hair while I complained about stuff. Don’t worry, I didn’t get specific or use your name. I don’t even think they knew who I was. They went out but they said I could chill in their house for as long as I wanted. Not a great decision on their part, I mean, I was a fucking stranger. I’d be so pissed at my sister if she told me she let some rando off the street stay in her fucking house, but I guess I looked pretty sad and harmless or something. I don’t know, I’m rambling.”

Jack can’t help but slightly grin despite the circumstances.

“I read your letter though, after they left. Then I came back here.”

“And what are you thinking now?” asks Jack cautiously.

Kent blows out a breath and rubs a hand over his face.

“You wrote down pretty much everything I wanted to hear you say to me for the past six years.”

He doesn’t sound happy about it though, and Jack feels his heart sinking.

“Is it too late?” he asks, gripping his knees tightly, “Did I wait too long?”

Kent worries his bottom lip between his teeth. He doesn’t speak for a very long time.

“I told you before that I’m pathetic,” he says with a bitter laugh, “I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make me not take you back.”

Something sparks inside of Jack, much like his anger had before but now it’s an entirely different feeling. He turns fully toward Kent now and inches slightly closer.

“I really am sorry,” he says with an urgency he’s not sure he’s ever felt before. He needs Kent to know this, he needs him to understand, “I’m so, so fucking sorry, for- for everything.”

Kent smiles tiredly.

“I know. I read your letter, remember? I think you said that about twenty different ways. And I’m sorry too. For not giving you space when you clearly fucking wanted it, for showing up here. I know that wasn’t ok.”

His voice is weak, all of his energy seemingly spent.

“But it has to be different this time. You can’t- you can’t do that to me again. You have to talk to me more, and-“

He turns now and meets Jack’s eyes. He moves his leg over until their knees are just barely touching.

“It will be,” promises Jack, nodding his head vigorously, “I’m different now. I- I’ll always have my problems, but I know how to handle them now.”

Kent sniffs loudly and when he speaks again his voice sounds oddly constricted.

“So you really mean it then?” he asks, his eyes huge and bright, “This isn’t some awful fucking joke? You really want to try again?”

Jack reaches down carefully and brushes his fingers over Kent’s knee.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, I really fucking do, Kenny. I want this more than anything else.”

Kent sniffs again and nods.

“Ok, ok cool,” he replies, his voice shaky and uneven, “That’s- that’s great, Zimms. I- fuck.”

He pushes his hands into his eyes. He trembles and lets out a single sob, then Jack is pulling them together. Kent presses his face into his shoulder and grips him so tightly that Jack knows he’ll find bruises on his skin tomorrow. He wraps his arms around Kent’s body and squeezes him back just as tightly.

“Fuck,” cries Kent, his voice muffled against Jack’s shirt, “I hate fucking crying.”

“It’s alright, Kenny” Jack murmurs into his sweet smelling hair. He strokes his fingers through the buzzed, but still soft, strands near the nape of his neck.

“I missed you so fucking much.”

“I missed you, too. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure my shit out.”

Kent continues to sob noisily into his shoulder, his death grip never letting up in the slightest, but Jack doesn’t mind because he can’t let go either. If he hadn’t cried so hard to Shitty before, he’d probably be sobbing just as much as Kent.

There’s still a mountain of things they need to talk about, to figure out together, but for right now everything finally feels ok. He’s ok in a way he hasn’t felt since he was eighteen, and now that this feeling is back he feels insanely stupid for denying himself, denying them both, for so long.

 

* * *

 

 

A little while later, Kent’s sobs have quieted and Jack has moved them so that they’re lying down on the bed and facing each other. Kent’s head is buried in his chest and he continues to run his fingers soothingly through his scalp and over his back, feeling the tightness in his neatly defined muscles. The front of Jack’s shirt is soaked through with tears and snot but he couldn’t care less in the slightest.

Kent pulls slightly back a few minutes later and looks at the mess on Jack’s chest. His eyes are red and puffy and his hair is a mess, but he still looks so fucking good. He always looked so agonizingly good, no matter what and Jack had never been able to believe that someone who looked like Kent would look back at him the same way.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, touching the wet fabric lightly with his fingertips, “Oh, gross.”

“I don’t care,” Jack says back in a voice that’s just as soft.

From this close, he can see each individual freckle spanning the bridge of Kent’s nose and cheeks. He remembers all of the nights when his anxiety would get so bad that it spawned insomnia, and he remembers looking at Kent’s sleeping face and counting the freckles until sleep eventually came. Now he wants to count them again, to personally find each and every new addition. There will be time for that, so much time, so instead he settles for swiping his thumb over a patch across Kent’s cheekbone.

Kent stares back at him unwaveringly.

“Do you regret it?” Jack asks, smoothing his hand between Kent’s shoulder blades.

“What?” Kent rasps back, arching lightly and pushing into Jack’s touch like a cat.

“Coming out?”

Kent sighs and looks away.

“No. Not yet at least, but ask me again after we play in the south.”

“I will,” Jack replies, and the promise is clear in his voice. One corner of Kent’s mouth twitches up for a second. Then he blows out a breath.

“I was just so tired,” he whispers weakly, “Of having to pretend, and of being so paranoid all the time that someone was going to find out.”

Jack presses his mouth lightly to the new scar cutting through one of Kent’s arched eyebrows.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against his skin, “That you had to do that. And that I wasn’t-”

He trails off and Kent shrugs and sniffs.

“S’ok. It got better after I told the team. Well I told Swoops first, actually he figured it out by himself, and then he kind of tested the waters and broke it to the other guys because I was too chickenshit to do it on my own.”

“Were they ok about it?”

Kent shrugs again, tracing the Samwell logo on Jack’s shirt.

“Most of them didn’t give a fuck. Some of them were weird about it, and I’m sure some still are, but they don’t say anything because I’m their Captain and a million fucking times better at hockey then all of them.”

Jack sniggers as Kent pushes his face into his neck.

“Really humble too.”

“Fuck that,” he laughs, and his breath is hot against Jack’s throat, “What ever happened to not bullshitting each other?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re alright. But you only won the Art Ross three out of the last four years, so-“

He makes a distinctly unmanly noise when he feels Kent’s teeth bite into his skin sharply. He grins widely as Kent pulls back to glare at him. He laughs at the petulant look on his face and rubs his thumb over the same patch of freckles again. His eyes drop down to Kent’s mouth and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the latter. The mood changes instantaneously. Jack moves his hand down, gently tracing his thumb over Kent’s bottom lip now.

“Can I-“

“Yeah,” breathes Kent, not even letting him finish his question, “Yeah, Zimms.”

That’s all Jack needs. He wraps his hand around the back of Kent’s neck and pulls him forward, so slowly and gently until their lips are millimeters apart. He looks back up to Kent’s eyes to make sure that this is what he wants, that it’s not too soon, and he only finds desperate longing staring back at him in the blue. Or are they green now? He could never tell this close up.

Then they’re lips are pressing against each other’s softly and Jack can’t form any more thoughts. It’s so gentle and hesitant, so different from the desperate and hard way they had kissed when they were younger. When they were frantic and couldn’t get enough of each other as soon as they were alone. Now there’s no rush, no fear of someone walking in and ruining their chances at careers in the NHL.

Kent’s lips are warm and slightly chapped, and when he sighs and opens his mouth slightly the inside of it is scorching. His hands are trapped between them, twisting Jack’s shirt in his fisted hands as he tries to pull their bodies even closer together. They continue to kiss, soft and slow, for what feels like hours before Jack pulls away. He kisses the corner of Kent’s mouth, his jaw, his nose, and his temple before resting their foreheads together. When he opens his eyes again Kent is grinning hugely at him, looking like the pink and purple cat from that trippy cartoon movie that he had always made Jack watch. It’s so infectious that he feels his own grin stretching across his face.

“You’re staying over right?” he asks, not trying to conceal the hope in his voice whatsoever. Kent nods.

“Yeah, if that’s ok.”

“So much more than fucking ok.”

Kent blushes and drops his gaze.

“But- but just to sleep, ok? I don’t want to go too fast and fuck it up. I want to do everything right this time.”

Jack nods in agreement, pressing his lips once more to the corner of Kent’s mouth.

“Just to sleep then. You can borrow some clothes.”

“Thanks.”

He leaves Kent stretched out on his bed, watching him as he opens up his drawers and pulls out a Samwell t-shirt and a pair of dark sweatpants. He tosses them to Kent, laughing slightly when they land on his face, and grabs his own sleeping clothes before heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth and change.

Jack looks at himself in the mirror over the sink and barely recognizes himself. His face is flushed and there are spots of bright pink across his cheeks. His eyes are bright and his red, kiss-swollen lips can’t seem to stop turning up at the corners. He splashes cold water on his face and heads back into his room.

Kent has already changed and Jack smiles when he sees the way his clothing hangs loosely off of his smaller frame, even with the pounds of muscle he’s packed on since their time in the Q. There are swirls and designs of colorful ink peeking out from the collar and sleeves of the red shirt. Jack remembers the few tattoos Kent had already had when they were teenagers, and he wants to inspect his whole body for new additions. There will be time for that later though.

Kent is lying on his back, scrolling through the phone held above his face, but he tosses it to the side when Jack crawls back into the bed. They wrangle the covers down and slip under them. When Jack turns away to switch off the lamp on his bedside table, he feels Kent curl around him from behind, his forehead pushing into the back of his neck with a comforting pressure. He slings an arm over Jack’s waist and he has barely enough time to lace their fingers together before he finds himself slipping into the most comfortable sleeps he’s had in a long, long time.

 

* * *

 

 

The noise in the kitchen reaches a chaotic level after Holster throws a pancake and it hits Ransom directly in the face. Bitty complains indignantly about his food going to waste and mutters something about taking his cooking over to the lax house instead. The horrified looks he receives are enough to make him laugh out loud.

“Bitty,” says Ransom looking completely aghast. He’s now wearing the pancake on top of his head like it’s some weird new form of a beret, “Don’t even joke about that, brah.”

“Don’t leave us for the Chads, Bits,” Holster says seriously, “We’d have to wage an all out war and hockey would have to be put on the backburner. Our season would really suffer.”

“Don’t let Jack hear you say that,” laughs Shitty, working his way through his third stack of pancakes, or is it the fourth?

“Hear what?”

Four heads whip towards the doorway and see Jack standing there, looking slightly suspicious. Everyone goes silent, not because they’re afraid of Jack’s reaction to the imminent pancake war with the lax house, but because Kent Parson is standing next to him in a baggy Samwell shirt and sporting sleep rumpled hair.

To their credit, everyone recovers after a beat of awkward silence, even though their smiles seem a bit forced and their eyes keep darting towards Kent almost involuntarily.

“Bitty threatened to leave us for the lax house. We’d have to give up on our season to wage an all out war to win him back,” bemoans Shitty, “It’s Holtzy’s fault; he disrespected the flapjacks.”

“Oh my god, y’all are ridiculous,” says Bitty with an eye roll, turning back to the stove “It was a joke.”

“Lax bros are not a laughing matter,” Ransom protests seriously, the pancake on his head flapping slightly as he shakes his head, “They’re the scourge of our campus. With their khakis and pastel button-ups and boring ass personalities. I think I even saw one the other day wearing those pants covered in tiny whales, and he was talking about men’s rights. I almost vomited.”

Jack laughs once.

“Isn’t that how you dress, Rans? Also, nice hat.”

He puts a hand on Kent’s shoulder and pushes him gently into the kitchen.

“Ouch, Jack. Your chirps always cut too deeply. I have nothing in common with the fucking Chads.”

“Except for the way you dress.”

He gives a whole body shudder and the pancake finally flops back onto the table. Shitty spears it with his fork and adds it to his quickly diminishing stack. Jack pours two mugs of coffee and hands one to Kent, who is still quiet and looking a little out of place.

“Sooo,” starts Holster looking between the two of them.

Jack glares at him and it only makes him grin more widely.

“Sooooo,” he says again, drawing the word out even longer this time, “Are we going to talk about the Aces elephant in the room?”

Kent snorts then suddenly looks down at his pants. He pulls his buzzing phone out of the pocket.

“Ah, shit. I swear I didn’t plan that,” he says, setting his coffee cup down on the counter, “I gotta answer or they’ll think I got kidnapped or something. You got this, man.”

He grins and claps Jack on the shoulder as he slides his thumb over his phone screen and holds it up to his ear. He walks out of the kitchen and his conversation trails behind him as he goes.

“Sup…. Nah, I’m at Samwell… yeah, yeah I know, fuck off… I’m not gunna make the plane, already talked to Coach… chill the fuck out Jeff. I’m 24 I can handle booking another flight by myself… Just tell everyone I went to visit my sister or something, I don’t feel like having you dumbasses all gossip about me the whole way back… swing by my place when you get home and make sure Trevor hasn’t trashed the house will you?”

His voice becomes muffled and unintelligible as he heads up the stairs to continue his conversation.

Once the occupants of the kitchen hear Jack’s door close they turn back to their captain. They’re all sporting eager grins and Jack feels like a piece of prey being surrounded by a pack of wolves. He stares back at them over the rim of his mug and doesn’t say anything.

“Dude,” says Holster eloquently, making the single word sound like a whole sentence.

“ _Dude_ ,” mimics Ransom with even more feeling.

Shitty is smiling at him knowingly and Bitty is surprisingly silent and focused on the pancakes still on the stove. He thinks he sees a small frown on his face but before Jack can ask him about it Ransom and Holster are talking again.

“Deets.”

“We need deets like yesterday, brah.”

Jack shrugs. Mulling over his thoughts carefully for a few seconds.

“We’re together again, I guess.”

He sees Bitty flinch in his peripheral vision, but when he turns to look at him his expression is carefully neutral. Huh, he didn’t know what to make of that.

“You guess?” laughs Shitty through a mouthful of pancakes.

Jack rolls his eyes.

“We’re dating,” he clarifies in a nonchalant tone, “Trying again, whatever?”

“’Swawesome,” replies Shitty before turning back to his breakfast.

Ransom and Holster are both grinning madly now, looking like a pair of hyenas.

“Dude,” whines Ransom, “I spend like, 90% of my day socializing and I still can’t get a steady girlfriend. You barely ever leave the house and you get to date the best player since Gretsky. The world doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect fucking sense,” disagrees Shitty, “Look at that beaut of a face. Carved from fucking marble, brah.”

Jack rolls his eyes again and turns to refill his coffee cup. The grin stretching across his face is genuine and he thinks for the millionth time how lucky he is to have friends like these.

“Wait, what about Camilla though?” asks Holster looking confused, “I thought you guys were still a thing. You still hang out all the time.”

“What? No. We went back to being just friends months ago.”

“Who is Camilla?” questions Kent from the doorway, apparently finished with his phone call.

Jack groans and mutters something in French into his cup.

Kent laughs loudly and makes a beeline back to his half-finished coffee on the counter next to Jack.

“I dare you to say that in English.”

“Doesn’t translate well,” mumbles Jack, his cheeks and ears turning slightly pink.

“I know, that’s what makes it even funnier.”

“Did you book your flight?”

“Yeah, heading out of Logan at six. Can you drive me?”

“Yeah, I’ll borrow Lardo’s car” Jack nods, then a confused look crosses his face, “How’d you get here last night?”

“Took an Uber. Didn’t feel like getting a rental.”

“From Boston? How much did that cost?”

“Fuck if I know. So back to this Camilla chick…”

Jack groans and his teammates laugh at his expense.

“Yeah Zimms, don’t think I didn’t notice that misdirection.”

“Parse, brah, get over here,” says Ransom, already flipping through social media on his phone, “She’s the captain of the girl’s tennis team here, super chill. Totally gunna be winning all the grand slams soon.”

Parse walks over, sipping his coffee, and looks at the picture displayed on the phone screen.

“Ha,” he barks out, “She looks like she could be my sister.”

“Oh shit,” laughs Holster, “She totally does. Wait, Rans, show him Samantha and Kate while you’re at it. You have such a fucking type, Jack.”

“Stop,” groans Jack, glaring at the pair. Of course they ignore him, continuing to find pictures of his various hook-ups and girlfriends from the last few years and shoving them in Parse’s face.

“Wait, wait, wait,” shouts Shitty, holding both of his hands up in the air and halting the conversation. Jack thinks he’s finally going to put an end to this surreal torment he’s currently experiencing, “Have you hooked up with guys at Samwell too?”

So much for being his best friend and having his back. Jack makes a mental note to shove Shitty into the nearest snow bank the next chance he gets. He feels his face light up and he turns away. But it’s too late.

“I hate all of you,” he mutters.

“JACK LAURENT ZIMMERMANN!” shouts Shitty, apparently mortally offended, “How could you not fucking tell me this? Me, of all people! I’ve told you every detail about everyone I’ve ever hooked up with.”

“I didn’t ask you to. I specifically told you that I didn’t want to know.”

Kent is laughing loudly at his discomfort. Traitor.

Despite his embarrassment and slight mortification, Jack feels an unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest as he watches Kent laugh and joke with his friends, even if it is at his own expense. The morning light streaming through the window catches on his hair, turning it a bright, shining gold. He meets Jack’s gaze and throws him the same lopsided grin that used to make his breath hitch when he saw in from across the locker room. He smiles back softly, getting to savor the moment for just a few seconds before his friends start chirping them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So my plan for this story was always to get their reunion out of the way, then move onto one shots since I have so many ideas for them in my head. Most of them would be a lot more light-hearted/comedic than these last three chapters (probably less dialogue too!). I just really felt the need to fully hash out the reunion in detail. If people like this story/idea I'll keep going and am open to suggestions for one-shots! Thanks for reading!


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